"If you’ve
ever heard your teacher wax poetic about how early yogis were doing sun
salutations on the banks of the Ganges River 5000 years ago, now you
know: they’re full of crap. Nobody was doing Surya Namaskara A 5000
years ago."

Sunday, November 20, 2016

I wrote this new article on Colin Kaepernick, football, and yoga. It will no doubt piss some people off. (That's ok.) Thanks to YogaDork for publishing.

Why Colin Kaepernick Is The Yoga Teacher We Need Right Now

So Donald J. Trump is our President-elect.

In the week since Trump won the Electoral College, we’ve witnessed an
uptick in hate crimes across America. Monday night, Trump appointed
Steve Bannon, alt-right head of Breitbart News and a known white
supremacist, as chief White House strategist. Former Ku Klux Klan leader
David Duke has celebrated Trump’s win as a victory for his white
nationalist movement. And swastikas are appearing all over churches,
schools, and bathrooms walls across the country.

It’s already been hard to talk about the results of the election with
our children. Now, with white supremacists at the helm, civil rights
are in a bad way. As parents, we’re wondering: where can we look for
progressive activist role models for our children?

The first thing I’m gonna do is buy my son a Colin Kaepernick jersey.

Kaepernick is a stealth yoga teacher. And it’s got nothing to do with his tight pants.

Kaepernick first declined to stand
for “The Star-Spangled Banner” before the 49ers’ August 26th preseason
game against the Green Bay Packers because, as he put it, he couldn’t
“show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and
people of color.” Kaepernick’s move has sparked outrage across the country, eliciting nationalist critiques, burned jerseys, and even death threats. Earlier this month, just prior to the election, Kaepernick quietly launched a Black Panthers-inspired “Know Your Rights” camp empowering black and Latino students in Oakland, CA to combat oppression.

A few weeks after Kaepernick kicked off his peaceful protest, I led a
yoga philosophy training for current teachers. We covered philosophy
basics from old school yoga texts like the Upanishads and the Bhagavad Gita,
and revisited the often-murky history of yoga. Then we dragged yoga
philosophy into the 21st century, brainstorming about where to find
alternative texts—the kind of postmodern yoga teachers that hide out in
unexpected places, like Ferdinand The Bull or Fight Club or (gasp) even Donald Trump.

One student raised her hand. She brought up Colin Kaepernick.

Brilliant, I thought. Yes; this is what yoga looks like in the real world....

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

One of the many reasons that people are freaked out is that the new administration denies climate change. So here's a way you can protest peacefully with your body, right now: GO VEG. Stop eating meat.

A vegan diet is literally the most powerful thing you can do to help save the planet. And it doesn't require passing any bills or protesting any elections. So if the new EPA director is going to call climate change a hoax, you can counteract that in this very breath.

Start today. Watch the documentary FORKS OVER KNIVES. Check out their website. Get their app (hundreds of delicious plant-based recipes!) and then start cooking for yourself and your family. Listen to Rich Roll's podcasts. Read his books. Look up Neal Barnard and Dean Ornish. Google "John Robbins " and learn how the Baskin-Robbins heir left a fortune behind because he realized eating vegan was the only healthy, ethical way. Read Carol J. Adams's book "The Sexual Politics Of Meat." See the ways in which Trump's pussy-grabbing attitudes toward women and his obsession with valuing beauty queens for their looks are ingrained in American culture, and how they're related to the way we objectify animals as meat, and how you can resist (and show solidarity for the poor and the vulnerable and the underprivileged) by simply choosing to eat differently. Look up "ahimsa" and think about the ways in which your eating habits might create less suffering.

We cannot put this off 4 more years. We can't wait for someone else to do it. So start now. Here. RESIST. For your kids' and your grandkids' sake. Put your money where your mouth is — and stop eating meat.

Monday, November 14, 2016

Finding this beautiful children's book in the mail from Oakland author and badass illustrator Robert Liu-Trujillo last week amidst vast disappointment about the state of the world. Reading it to my boy as he sits on my lap and remembering how his little open mind is such a sponge for goodness right now. Recommitting to raising him aware that his reality is only one of many in the world and that the hard important holy work of his life as a human being is to see the divinity in every single fucking living creature and, knowing that, to celebrate and fight for and lift one another up. 💪

Read it, buy it, gift it for the holidays instead of some plastic shit.

Children's books are one of the few things giving me hope in this bleak moment.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Hey, yogis? This is not the time for spiritual bypassing. Feel your shit. Be in it all the way. Anger can be holy, too. Anger can be fierce and righteous and sacred and life-giving, of its own accord. And it might just be what gets us through the next four years.

I dunno about you, but I've been living in Revolved Triangle for about the last 18 months. And as much as I was hoping to wake up feeling light and celebratory today, flowing through that much-needed vinyasa to rinse out all the knots and the pain, to move the prana and reset, it looks like we're gonna be staying here for several more years. So buckle in and take a deep breath. Our job is to stay calm, raise hell, make art, and maintain some kind of equanimity. I was ready to let go of this teacher. But he's apparently sticking around until we learn a much-bigger lesson about compassion and unity and all that gooey yoga shit.

If you feel heavy/somber/furious today, dammit, let yourself FEEL it, all the way. Yoga and meditation are not about denying ugly emotions. They're about noticing them, staying with them, realizing they're not us, and that eventually they'll pass. Grief takes time. So be gentle with yours.

Stay in the fire. Refuse to succumb. MAKE ART. Get your IUD today so Mike Pence can't make your reproductive decisions for the next four years. And, by god, set up a monthly auto-donation to progressive non-profits who will fight for equality.

Atha Yoga Anusasanam. FUCK. Now it really is the time for the yoga to begin.

May all beings be peaceful and free from suffering. Yup. Even him. And them. And us.

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

I don't think I've worn white since my wedding day. Busted out this old jacket that I bought back in college. I remember seeing Hillary speak in Philly in 1998. She wore a pantsuit. Back then I vowed that I'd never get married til my gay brother and friends could get married, too. Well, guess what? Here we are. Marriage equality, one beautiful son, and one thoughtful husband who's also #withher. We've got progressives and Democrats to thank for that. So vote BLUE up and down ballot. Cuz nasty women get shit done.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Some of you who've been around for awhile know that back in the day — waaaay back, like 2008, before the advent of any small children or Twitter or the yoga industrial complex, when all I used to do was roam SF's used bookstores and do yoga and shake cocktails and go to the opera — I used to bake. A lot.

In fact, that half-assed, booze-heavy, frosting-driven practice turned into my first Yoga Journal article. Even though I wasn't particularly good at it, and many of the recipes relied shamelessly heavily on cake mixes and Jell-O pudding.

(What can I say? I'm a lazy baker. Only in it for the sugar.)

Anyway, my girl Toni sent me this recent NPR article about election cakes and it got me all fired up to turn on the oven before November 8th. (Did you see it? If not: it's called "A History of Election Cake and Why Bakers Want to #MakeAmericaCakeAgain." Skim it for more, though the title pretty much says it all.)

Got me reminiscing about the Black Russian cake we made as a nod to Sarah Palin's doofus statement about seeing Russia from her house. And the Blueberry Cream cake we made for Election Day 2008, to usher in a much-needed new Obama era (and to celebrate Jinny's birthday on the same night).

So I'm feeling inspired to whip out the dusty bundt pans and make a 2016 version. I mean, it's only patriotic, right? (Though this year's will definitely be more on the vegan and gluten-free side of things.)

For Hillary: I could go the blue route again (for Democrats), like we did with Obama's, but surely there's gotta be something more appropriate as a nod to the first woman President, right? Help me out.

So open the floodgates. Send me your Election Cake recipe suggestions. We've got two weeks to bake some stellar bundts. Healthy or no. Edible or no. Bonus points for booze.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

New article is up! Teachers, this one's for you. Thanks to Yoga Trade for publishing.

What To Do When You're Teaching In 15 Minutes

& You've Got Nothing To Give

Teachers, does this sound familiar?

You’re drained, running on empty, burning the candle at both ends.
You’ve taught 12 classes already this week, and with four to go, you
wonder what you have left to give anyone.

You haven’t gotten much sleep. You’ve not eaten all day and you’re
super low-blood-sugar. Or maybe you’re just feeling kind of quiet and
blue; your dog just went in for surgery to remove a lump, or your
grandmother is ailing, or you just found out you didn’t get that job (or
that date) you really, really wanted.

Whatever the case — your gas tank is empty, and you’re feeling
decidedly short on the kind of chutzpah required to power through being
an inspiring yoga-guru for the next 90 minutes. How are you supposed to
emcee a dance party when you’d rather curl up under the covers and
hibernate?

I’ve been mentoring a few [awesome] teachers lately as they study for
their 500hr certifications, and this is one of the topics that has
repeatedly come up. Most of us wellness professionals can relate to
this, yeah? If you teach long enough, you’ll surely experience burnout
at some point. It’s the nature of the biz. (And the nature of being
human, to be honest.)

For newer teachers especially, who are often hustling from location
to location teaching 10-15 classes a week, it’s not an option to cut
back to a more reasonable number. Add in urbanity, commuting, and a high
cost of living, and you need to keep teaching a robust regular schedule
to afford to pay your rent and eat a decent meal now and then, too. The
luxury of cutting back to just a few inspired classes a week is one
that’s often only available to established teachers with large
followings, or folks with another full-time job that takes the financial
pressure off yoga teaching.

Wellness professionals — whether yoga teachers, Pilates teachers,
massage therapists, acupuncturists, you name it — well, we give a lot.
The very nature of our craft is that you put yourself out there,
physically AND emotionally. You can’t just hide in a cubicle with your
headphones on and fritter the workday away online waiting for the clock
to hit 5pm so you can escape to your sofa. You need to show up, in every
way — whether you’re feeling en fuego or exhausted.

The upside for those of us who really love teaching is that so much
comes back to us, too. How lucky are we to do the kind of work that
makes us feel MORE alive when we finish? Many times over the years I’ve
walked into a class feeling kind of neutral (shall we say sattvic,
or quietly balanced, to keep it Ayurvedic?), and walked out feeling
buzzingly-alive, connected, inspired. How cool is it that we get to do
that kind of work? It really is a blessing.

Here are a few things to remember on the days when you might struggle for inspiration:

How are your Hungry Ghosts treating you? What insatiable craving is driving you these days?

It's the perfect time of year to say hello to your own ghosts. This is an old favorite of mine, written in the greys of October in SF a few years back.

"Can you be brave enough to glimpse your own Hungry Ghost in the
mirror, and, rather than running away from her, or numbing her out, or
shutting her down, give her a loving nod, maybe a wink, maybe a curious
tilt of the head, seeing her for what she is, and thanking her for the
inadvertent teaching she's wrought in your life?"

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

I've been hunkered down the last few days prepping material to teach 15 hours' of philosophy workshops this weekend. It's nerdy-awesome and of course waaaay too much information, but I dig it. And am always vaguely surprised and delighted that anyone else would like to tawk about this sort of thing.

Most afternoons while my kid naps after preschool I've been throwing on a history or philosophy podcast and squeezing in my home practice. Love listening to some of these Big Deal yoga scholars (most of them male) being interviewed and hearing small children chattering and hollering in the background while they're trying to have Big Serious Conversations about sannyasins and Tantric mudras and the Bhagavad Gita.

It gives me hope.

Inspires me that these folks are getting Big Things Done whilst still chasing tiny little butts around the house trying to get them to wear pants.

Picturing these Smart-As-Hell British Philosopher Dudes muting their phones and hustling over to the doorway to whisper "Shhh! Take the cat out of the washing machine and pipe down, Nigel!" and then jumping back into the conversation trying to be cool, as though they totally didn't just miss that whole thread about Vivekananda slaying it at the 1893 World Parliament of Religions in Chicago.

Makes me feel like a comrade in the struggle to strike some kind of elusive work/life balance.

It's hard to blend the life of a yogi (ascetic? monastic? contemplative?) with that of a middle-class householder. Really hard. But the teachers I respect most are the ones who've figured it out. Or who are trying to figure it out.

It's pretty easy to be peaced-out when you're sitting on a mountaintop meditating listening to coyotes. Or when you've got gazillions of bucks for nannies and house-cleaners so you can focus on your AAAART.

But I am moved to seek out teachers and friends and scholars, yes, who are standing knee-deep in the compost pile of unfolded laundry and scattered Play-Dough and ten thousand library book variations of Old MacDonald.

It's kind of like deciding to take a hot yoga class. You already know, walking into a regular yoga class, that at some point you're gonna feel awkward or tight or frustrated or off-balance. But adding in the 100-degree element kicks the intensity up a notch or seven. More opportunities to practice, right?

This is parenting whilst being a yogi.

More opportunities to practice, baby.

A little bit of quiet can go such a long way. A few deep breaths behind the bedroom door. You can find it in the stolen moments, in half-assed catches of stillness, in remembering to let go and begin again. (Emphasis on the half-assed.) Until you hear the kid waking up, and you roll up the mat and accept that you're gonna get a 20-minute practice in today and that's ok, even if you only did one side of Revolved Triangle and half a backbend, so you scramble up the stairs and take a deep breath and jump out of the meditation and into the relationship.

Michael Stone describes enlightenment as intimacy. A closeness with what is. A clear-seeing. A realness. So jumping into that teeny-weeny toddler bed and scrunching your knees up into your armpits while still half-sweaty from Sun Salutations to snuggle a sweetly-rumpled-waking-up little boy is just another kind of yoga, right?

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

I'm delighted to be teaching three big fat days of Yoga History & Philosophy next weekend at YoYoYogi. Please join me for a little or a lot. This is gonna be goooood.

(I promise to keep it real.)

There are 3 options to participate:

1. The Full Weekend: $299 September 16 - 18

Curious about the roots of yoga, but not sure where to begin? Wondering
what the heck all that Sanskrit's about? Ready to dig in a little
deeper? Here's your chance. Join Rachel for a fascinating weekend packed
with the wild, renegade history of yoga (for real!), the brilliant
philosophy behind the poses, down-to-earth tools for working with a
racing mind, and so much more. This stuff will rock your world, deepen
your practice, and change your life.

2. The History of Yoga $49 Friday, September 16 from 6:30 - 9:30p

Did you know yogis were once such scandalous rogues that no decent person would be seen with them? Or that sun salutations
are really a hybrid of British military exercises, Indian nationalist
wrestling, and Scandinavian gymnastics? The yogic tradition is rich with
mind-blowing history, most of which is news to us contemporary
practitioners. Come on down for a glimpse of the dishy roots of yoga you
never knew existed. Get the lowdown on all those lunges, the true story
behind the Tantra, and so much more.

Join Rachel for a down-to-earth look at the inspiring, powerful
philosophy that underlies the asana practice we know and love. Here's
your chance to break down some of the key concepts and texts of yoga,
both on and off the mat, in super-relatable ways. Learn how to apply
yoga philosophy to your crappy job, your gnarly commute, and that
pain-in-the-butt boss. You'll walk out lighter than you walked in. And
your practice will never be the same.

In yogic philosophy, the word Santosha basically translates as “contentment.”

This isn’t contentment as in, Hey, let’s get stoned and sit on the couch eating donuts and bingeing on Netflix for the next five hours.

It’s not contentment as in Eh, my life is pretty decent as it is,
so why bother learning a new language or playing piano or planting a
garden or traveling to Greece?

This is contentment, as in looking around at your perfectly-imperfect
life, waking up to the little graces, and being ok with it, instead of
constantly seeing happiness over there, once you get that body or that car or that job or that partner or that kid.

You see this everywhere. Capitalism stokes the fire. Our economy is
fueled by the message that YOU ARE NOT ENOUGH. That if you just buy this
moisturizer or that Tesla or that pair of sneakers, you’ll be lovable,
you’ll be popular, you’ll be complete.

BULLSH*T.

We all know that’s not true.

Because as soon as you get the Tesla, you’ll want the newer model.
And as soon as you get the McMansion, you’ll want the one with the pool
next door. And as soon as you get the trophy wife, there’ll be a younger
one with fewer wrinkles and better boobs around the corner.

The first time I really “got” meditation, I was standing at my kitchen sink washing dishes.

My father was dying. Cancer.

Hospice bed in the living room-style cancer.

I’d flown back to Nebraska to see him one last time, to hold his hand, say goodbye.

Now, the haunting question of when.

I was 26, living in a 100-year-old flat in San Francisco, bartending
my way through grad school, subsisting on coffee and cocktails. Standing
there at the sink, I could hear the young couple upstairs vacuuming,
the Chinese family across the alley clattering pans, and the cable car
clanging one block over on California Street.

My mind was obsessively circling the drain.

When would Dad die?Where would I be? Walking out of
class? Trudging up Nob Hill? Shaking a martini? Tomorrow? Next week? I
should buy a black suit. I should book a flight. I should cover my
shifts. But no. That’s so morbid. He’s still here. But when? How am I
supposed to prepare for this? How am I supposed to think about anything
else?

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

I've been having a hard time writing about yoga lately. It feels crass
and trite given everything going down in the world. Here, some thoughts
on that overexposed word "Namaste," and why the hell we need it now,
more than ever.

You can find it everywhere: on yoga mats, on bumper stickers, on
water bottles. You can buy a “Namaste In Bed” t-shirt on Amazon. You can
pick up Namaste bracelets and handbags and trucker hats on Etsy. You
can dig into Namaste-brand gluten-free pizza crust and chicken noodle
soup. You can walk into Namaste-branded pilates studios and wellness
centers.

(Not to mention the hilarious yoga-world-skewering web series Namaste, Bitches.)

The word itself has taken on a certain cultural significance. It’s
become a brand, recognizable even to someone who’s never stepped foot on
a yoga mat.

Buddhist teacher Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche called this phenomenon spiritual materialism.
Spiritual materialism occurs when a spiritual concept or practice is
turned into a product for the purpose of making money. It’s rooted in
the idea that you can buy and sell spiritual qualities like peace,
grace, or transcendence.

Namastizzle, baby.

There’s no going back now.

*

I’m having a hard time writing about yoga lately.

There’s such a cruel juxtaposition of things going on in the world.

It’s summer yoga festival season. My FB feed is packed with photos of
half-naked tan bendy people decorated with henna tattoos and patterned
leggings doing yoga poses on mountains everywhere I look. And they are
having so much FUN and sweating and chanting and living and doing their
thang, you know? And I’ve been there and done that myself, and oh man yes, is it so fun. Right on, people! Namaste! Jai Ma!

But those yogis-gone-wild posts are bookended with videos of awful
shootings in Baton Rouge and Minneapolis and Dallas and heartbreaking
massacres on the French Riviera and hand-wringing from the Republican
National Convention in Cleveland, where fiery speakers are calling for
gun rights and white supremacists are offering prayers.

How are we supposed to even reconcile the two?

It feels crass, doesn’t it? To share happy-pretty-shiny yoga pictures
on Instagram when the world feels like it is, quite literally,
devolving into chaos?

Monday, July 25, 2016

I know I've been an outspoken Bernie Bro. (Since we Sanders voters are all white hetero bros, right? Ahem).

But, can I tell ya? I am really feelin' the DNC right now. Really,
lemme say it, excited. Not just because Boyz II Men just sang Motown
Philly. Not just because there have been more people of color onstage in
the last few hours than in last week's entire RNC. And not just because
there's a stellar line-up of speakers
this week that pretty much makes me want to camp out in front of my TV
with a notepad, nodding, til Thursday night.

But because last
week's faux-patriotic Drumpf shitshow reminded me how important it is
that we all come together to ensure that this demagogue doesn't get
elected. There are smart, passionate folks out there right now like
Elizabeth Warren and Robert Reich who also find their hearts more
aligned with Sanders' policies. But they GET how important it is that
Drumpf not be elected. I mean, the prospects are terrifying. Not just
for us, but for our kids.

I think Jill Stein is great and my
political stances certainly align more with hers than with Hillary's.
Yes, she's more progressive. But she's not going to win. And if I vote
for her, that's one more chance Drumpf does. So for the sake of the
Supreme Court ALONE, we need to ensure HRC gets elected.

From
there, we elect progressives down ballot. We ensure that Bernie
continues to lead a movement (and maybe a new party) of New Progressives
for folks like us who don't see our leftist values reflected in the
current Democratic Party. And we keep chipping away at the establishment
bullshit that allowed folks like Debbie Wasserman Schultz to rig the
primaries.

Not that I know what I'm talking about. Not that I
am a political pundit! Unless perpetually scrolling Twitter in search of
more #DemsInPhilly
news makes me such. I am a yogi. A student. A human. A mother. And I am
looking forward to hearing what the mothers of Eric Garner and Trayvon
Martin and Michelle Obama and Joe Biden and Cory Booker and President
Obama and yup, even Bill and Chelsea Clinton have to say before the big
final HRC speech Thursday night.

Sometimes you gotta know when to let go. That's yoga, right? Don't get attached? Bernie's telling us as much.

I feel sad. But I listen to folks like Gavin Newsom and Elizabeth
Warren speak, and I feel a little more hopeful. At least this party
affirms LGBTQ rights and religious diversity and the right to choose.
It's far preferable to the alternative.

So let's watch. See
what happens. Over the course of the last 9 months, I have felt fired up
and demoralized and excited and disappointed. But right now I am just
grateful there is an alternative to Drumpf, even if a far-from-perfect
one. Now we just need to make sure she gets elected.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

First of all, I hope you dig my new fashion inspiration. Gonna be wearing that yellow ensemble on the right tonight to teach.

In all seriousness, I've been doing a lot of thinking and reading and listening lately. There's some really intelligent and thoughtful dialogue in the professional yoga world right now about hands-on adjustments: whether we should actually be adjusting people (since many yoga teachers are not trained bodyworkers), what the purpose is, and how adjustments feel for folks with a history of trauma (which, according to some statistics, is 1 in 4 women — whoa, right?!).

Do the math. That means in your average class of 32 people, you've got 8 or so who might be super-triggered by a seemingly-innocuous adjustment — and that's not even counting men! (I don't have the statistics in front of me right now, but they are sobering, and that's just the reported cases. Glad to dig them up for you if you'd like more info.).

Needless to say, we've come a long way from the days when Pattabhi Jois and BKS Iyengar would just crank students into poses, whether their bodies were ready to go there or not. There's a ton of fantastic cultural commentary coming from folks like Matthew Remski in the wake of the recent Jivamukti scandal (and the many other yoga-world sexual harassment scandals which have preceded that one), much more nuanced than I could ever write. So I encourage you to follow what he's saying, and to stay engaged in the evolving conversation.

In just my own anecdotal research, I've discovered tons of hot and cold opinions about adjustments. A lot of people say "Ohmigod, I love them!" Which I totally get. Because usually I do, too. There is nothing like a great forward fold assist to get you just a little further than you realized you could go...especially when you're a bendy person who doesn't feel much in some of those poses by yourself.

So, yes, I usually love them too. That is, unless they feel creepy, or inappropriate, or I don't really know what the teacher's trying to get me to do, or I just ate a huge lunch and I kind of want to be left alone, or I'm having a challenging practice and really want some space, or if I'm not sure if the teacher is really qualified to be giving assists, or if my knee hurts, or I'm pregnant, or injured....

You get the drift. For every person who's told me they loooooove adjustments, there's another who says "Hell no, get out of my space, unless I know you, or you've been my teacher for years, or you ask me ahead of time, and I give you permission." Which I totally understand, too.

I have very distinct memories of being adjusted in Downward Dog some 7 or 8 years ago. I wasn't prepared for anyone to touch me, didn't know the assistants, and was already feeling contracted and anxious on a rough day. The minute the assistant (a wonderful, warm, well-meaning woman) touched my low back, I felt my whole body tense up. I tightened. I retracted. I got angry. I wanted to shove her away, shake her off, scream at her to leave me alone.

But of course I couldn't do that. I just got even quieter, turned even more inward, and stayed tense until she finally moved on to the next person.

Then again, there was that class at Yoga Tree Castro back in 2009. I was hiding in the back row doing my thing. Debbie Mobley (then a stranger, later a dear friend and colleague) came up and adjusted me in Happy Baby. She smiled and made a nice comment and I felt warm and welcome and seen, in the midst of a roomful of sweaty strangers. It made me want to come back.

So, you see? Adjustments are such a shitshow of possibilities. And what I'm learning, the more I listen to senior teachers like Jason Crandell and read nuanced commentary by folks like Matthew Remski, is that maybe the best thing to do right now is step back a bit. It's not enough to just offer folks the ability to say "Thanks, but no thanks." Many people might not feel comfortable doing that in a class setting between vinyasas anyway — especially folks who might not have a strong self-care voice due to past traumas.

Let's be frank here: I have been witness to inappropriate adjustments myself. I have heard too many stories, seen the aftermath of too many invasive and presumptuous adjustments that left students afraid to return to a studio, or a particular teacher. And, honestly? Even the kind of adjustments that left students feeling sexually harassed.

And that's flat-out wrong.

So for the time being, meet my new yoga assistant: poker chips. This cheesy little turquoise OM bag will come with me every time I teach a class, and you can find it on the stereo by my iPod. All you have to do if you want to be left alone is grab one, place it on the top of your mat, and I will happily give you tons of space. Whether it's a matter of being injured or being hungover or just wanting to be alone in your practice, I'm so glad to honor that.

I am grateful to my teacher Rusty Wells and the staff at Urban Flow, who first devised this "No Thanks, No Touch" chip back when we were teaching there. In classes that could sometimes swell to 175 students, it was an easy, elegant way to communicate that desire to just be left alone, for whatever reason. I spent years assisting Rusty and MC Yogi there at Urban Flow, and will always be grateful for those hundreds of hours of hands-on time that offered me an unmatched opportunity to be quietly with people's bodies, in all their sweaty, stretchy glory. And I am glad to be able to share some of that learning with students now.

My sister Mariah and I are in the process of developing a curriculum for trauma-sensitive trainings for yoga teachers. She's a dance/movement therapist who's got a terrific amount of knowledge to share about somatics, embodied trauma, and empowering students to observe and adjust their own bodies. I look forward to sharing more of this with you in the weeks to come.

Thanks and love to you. See you on the mat. With or without a poker chip.

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

I wrote this new piece for Yoga Trade. It's a flashback to my first yoga class back in 2003...and that time a few weeks ago when my car died in the middle of the road.

In other words: why the yoga starts when things fall apart.

Delighted to be a regular contributor over at Yoga Trade. Look for more in the months to come.

Get Lost, Start Over: Why Yoga Starts When Things Fall Apart

It’s a cool, grey Saturday morning in Portland.

7:45am.

I’m on the road, cruising along about 45 mph, pleasantly caffeinated, smoothie in hand, headed to teach my 8:15am class.

Life is calm and quiet and good. (The caffeine helps).

Good, that is, until, out of nowhere, smack in the middle of the
road, surrounded by other metal deathboxes zooming along at 45 mph, my
car just dies.

Shuts off. Loses all power. Sayonara, baby.

The dashboard lights flash once, ominously, and then they die, too. All of them.

Holy shit. What’s going on?! What am I gonna do?!

I shift the weirdly-energyless car into neutral. There’s a parking
lot just a few hundred feet ahead to my right, if I can just manage to
get there. Deliberately, clenchedly, I steer that lifeless monstrosity
of glass and leather and steel into the parking lot, shove it awkwardly
into Park, sit for a breathless moment hoping nothing explodes, and turn
the ignition off.

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

It's not PC and it's not
safe and it's not pretty. But I am so tired of keeping my mouth shut and
trying not to piss anyone off. Trying to be some neutral soft-spoken
yoga teacher without opinions. I can't do it.

Just last night, the mainstream media (led by the AP) suddenly, magically,
decided that Hillary Clinton had "clinched the Democratic nomination." What a coincidence! The night before the YUGE California
primary (+ 5 others), and on the
basis of "surveyed" superdelegate counts: votes which won't even be cast
until July 25th. Now every major news site is leading off with
triumphant stories about how Hillary's the one and she's breaking the
glass ceiling and hooray, ladies, we did it! And all the Twitter
feminists-of-a-certain-age are celebrating this supposed lady-victory
and wishing their mothers could be here for this moment.

Here's the thing: I'm a feminist. I did undergraduate and graduate degrees in
feminist theory. I read and write and live and breathe feminism. I raise
my son feminist.

Bernie's principles are more feminist. Period.

You
don't vote for a woman just because she's a woman. You vote for her
because her principles inspire you. You vote for her because her ethics
and integrity and track record leave you certain, deep down, that
she'll do the right thing.

I'm not going to vote for a moderate
war hawk who was against gay marriage until 2013 just because she has a
vagina. That's not how feminism works.

Feminism means
fighting climate change and ending the death penalty and paying for
college and providing universal health care and supporting gay marriage
and fighting against segregation and inspiring grassroots progressives
and independents of every age and race and class in service of the 99%.

You
know what's NOT feminist? The Iraq War. Fracking. The death penalty.
Getting funded by Time Warner and JP Morgan Chase and Citigroup. Giving
$225k speeches to Wall Street and refusing to release the transcripts.
Calling young black men "super-predators". Opposing gay marriage until
it's politically expedient.

I will vote for Hillary in
November if I have to. Maybe. I will begrudgingly support the lesser of two
evils, a candidate bought and paid for by big money.

But
now?! Now, when I have a choice?! Now, I'm voting for an old man from
Vermont. Not because he's a man. Because he's a feminist. And because his progressive vision calls for the kind of political
revolution we so desperately need.

So, my California peeps, and
everyone else: even though the media tells you it's already over: VOTE.
Today. Get out there. Do it. This primary race is not an anointment.
It's not a coronation. And if the voice of the people will be heard, it's up to each of us to make it happen.

Thursday, June 2, 2016

My toddler son and I spend a lot of time at the children's museum.
It's an oasis — that rare place where a rambling, fired-up little guy can
run freely, a sanctuary of rounded corners and rubbery surfaces where I
can sit down and exhale for a minute or two without worrying that he's
going to dart into the street or careen down a staircase.

But every time we go, I find myself stealthily scoping out the other
mothers (or fathers or nannies or grandparents) and wondering what
they're thinking. Are they, too, relieved and exhausted and
under-showered and over-caffeinated? Do they look at me and see a cool,
calm mama?

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

One of my favorite things about yoga is that you can find teachers and
texts in all kinds of unexpected places: movies, politics, basketball,
you name it. Thanks to Yoga International for picking up my essay about how a bruised and sweaty Brad Pitt taught me yoga.

5 Things Fight Club — Yes, Fight Club — Taught Me About Yoga

Take a look at any mainstream yoga rag, and you might think "yoga"
means skinny white ladies lounging around in stretchy pants, talking
about probiotics. But yoga is so much more.

Yoga's smart. Yoga's radical. Yoga's counter-cultural.

Yes, really.

The modern yoga scene is at a tipping point. Commodification and “Instagramification” have transformed this profound meditative practice into a trendy, upper-middle-class fitness craze.

It's time for populist, philosophy-loving yogis to reclaim yoga from
its widespread assimilation as a sanitized, fashion-driven workout.
Believe it or not, the philosophical tradition's got much wisdom to
offer regarding the messy, sweaty, sacred/profane reality of being
alive. Which brings us to...Fight Club. Yep, you heard me right.

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

"On a pristine Sunday evening in late spring, we memorialized the life of my old friend Greg.

It was a perfectly Aloha party, an anti-funeral on the rooftop deck of a
restaurant under the Bay Bridge, complete with Hawaiian shirts and
rollicking toasts and great seafood. The weather even behaved on behalf
of the celebration: no fog in sight.

At the request of Greg’s friends and family, I’d agreed to officiate the memorial.

This left me anxious as hell.

The morning of the service, I woke up with an unnameable knot in my
belly. The pressure to sum up a beloved friend’s life in a few brief
words completely trumps the pressure of doing, well, pretty much
anything else...."

Grateful for yoga's ongoing reminder to relax into authenticity, and to savor the shadows along with the sun.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Mamalode published this piece I wrote when my little guy was just 4 months old. I am delighted to be a part of their May theme: ‪#‎cherish‬. Such a good reminder to cherish every moment, both the wonderful and the challenging. We don't get this life forever.

Here's a blurb:

Four Months, Awake

He's fallen asleep, finally, finally.

His teething mouth is clamped onto the Ergo strap.

Is he breathing?

I check.

Yes, phew, breathing.

I am so tired. He is so tired.

He's been up every hour the last two nights.

Out of the blue, after settling into a nice pattern of sleeping for
6-7 hour chunks, followed by a quick 3am feeding, then cuddling in the
big bed til 7am. It had become a lovely routine.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

I wrote this for today's Washington Post.
It's deeply personal, and pretty scary to publish. But it's a piece that's been writing itself on my heart for a long time now. And the personal is
political. So if it makes even one woman feel less alone, then it was
worth it.

February 22: George Washington’s birthday. Drew Barrymore’s birthday. And mine.

My
phone pinged with Facebook notifications as I stood over the hospital
trash bin and retched. Three times I emptied my stomach of the apples
and peanut butter my husband had lovingly sliced a few hours before.
Once into the trash can. Again. And then again into the birthing tub
laced with lavender essential oils.

Fiercely feminist, I’d always
been ambivalent about having children. I’d watched my peers spawn with
nary a twinge of jealousy, content with my books and my yoga. I told
myself, “If it happens: great. If it doesn’t: great.”

On our
first date, I teased my future husband, Robb, that I’d likely go the way
of Sylvia Plath, making the kids sandwiches and sticking my head in the
oven.

Six months later, drinking champagne on a pier overlooking Tomales Bay, we were engaged.

A
year later, I was pregnant. Robb promised parenthood would make me a
better yoga teacher. I rolled my eyes and took a swig of my chai,
wishing it were vodka.

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Later this afternoon, I'll be teaching a History of Yoga workshop for the YoYoYogi teacher training.

For the last week or so, I've been up into the wee hours each night nerding out on Indra Devi and the Bhagavad Gita and more Marilyn Monroe asana pictures than you knew existed. I should be so tired from not sleeping, but I'm not — the exact opposite, in fact: I feel fired up and jazzed to have an excuse to spend time and energy on all this philosophy and history.

When I first moved to San Francisco in August 2003 (and started practicing yoga for the first time 2 weeks later), I didn't know a soul. I was a bookish introvert quite happy to be quietly surrounded by books and music and art. So I spent all my evenings and weekends trolling around SF's iconic bookstores reading geeky yoga philosophy books. There weren't many at the time, but I'd dig out the dishy ones and plop on the floor in City Lights in North Beach or Barnes and Noble overlooking Union Square and lose foggy hours to those texts.

They lit up my mind and stoked my heart and changed my life.

I certainly never sat down to read those books thinking I'd ever have a career in them. That didn't even seem possible. I just did it because they made me hungry for more. They made me feel connected to something deeper. And they made sense of the world in a holistic, intelligent way I'd only ever imagined possible.

So I kept reading. And 13 years later, I get paid to do what I'd do for free, for fun, for the sheer love of it: talk about yoga philosophy!

You can major in Business and decide you're going to be an accountant. You can go to law school and set a clear career path. But if you, like so many of us, wonder what your life's purpose (or dharma) really is, ask yourself: if I could wander into a bookstore and just get lost for a few hours, what would I read first? Which section would I make a beeline for? Where could I disappear and only come up for air hours later, not realizing any time had passed?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Feel the feeling. Drop the storyline.

Life. In the Raw.

I've got some mixed feelings about blogs. So self-indulgent.
But there's just so much I want to say. And it all pretty much comes down to this: what it looks like to be raw, live raw, love raw, swim around in it.
So, here you go. Cheers.